The Age of Oppression
by Polytheist
Summary: "Whiterun rejoice! For you have been liberated from Tyranny! The Age of Oppression is over!"
1. The City

**The Age of Oppression**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done._

**The City**

Whiterun burned.

In the Wind District the Gildergreen groaned in the heat as the sap used to sustain it hissed and bled, leaving black stains on the bark; while Plains District was choked with movement as guardsmen and Imperial Legionnaires fought the surge of civilians running for their lives as, from their placement on the surrounding plains, catapults loosed their loads, streaking fiery comets into the mass of its defenders.

Ulfric Stormcloak had gotten tired of waiting and sought to end the back and forth of the Rebellion by launching an all-out offensive on the neutral Hold; aided by Hjalmar Dragonborn, the new Unblooded of the Stormcloaks.

Firelight glinted off his steel sword as he paused for a moment, steel-grey eyes surveying the city from beneath his horned iron helmet.

The Plains District was theirs, many of the Stormcloaks had revitalised themselves by looting both weapons and potions from Adrianne's stores at Warmaiden's and Arcadia's Cauldron respectively; a few spirited individuals had raided the Bannered Mare, smashing the door to pieces and helping themselves to the mead and ale.

"By Talos, now this is what I call a fight," Hjalmar turned around at the sound of the booming voice.

There in the full regalia of the Stormcloak command stood Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric's second in command; his savage grin complimenting his bear helmet perfectly.

"By you appearance, I take it the Wind District has been taken."

"Of course," Galmar turned, beckoning Hjalmar to follow up the steps leading from the marketplace. "These pathetic milk drinkers don't have the right to call themselves Nords, not like us."

Hjalmar grunted, rather uncommittedly.

"Shame Jorrvaskr is locked up tighter than the legs of a Breton housewife," Galmar continued, "rather fancied myself a skyforged axe."

The Wind District was cluttered with the scars of battle; pieces of charred wood from the shattered awning mingled with the blood of the fallen.

Galmar approached the bodies of the dead Stormcloaks lain respectfully in the shadow of Talos' shrine, the priest Heimskr performing rituals over them; he was rather upbeat considering the recent destruction of his home by the Stormcloak bombardment.

"Take your rest in Sovngarde, Brothers," Galmar intoned over the bodies.

His next destination was the haphazard pile of Imperial soldiers and Whiterun guardsman; the majority of the casualties bearing Whiterun's yellow.

Galmar scowled down at the corpses. He cleared his throat before launching a projectile of spit and phlegm that landed somewhere among the bodies.

"Traitors to their own race," he spat before turning away.

Hjalmar frowned beneath his helmet at the desecration, for had they not bravely given their lives in defence of their homes? Did they not show both courage and honour by throwing themselves at the invader rather than fleeing? But he held his tongue, for despite his legendary status as the Last Dragonborn, he was only a lowly Unblooded in the Stormcloak army; there by grace of his abilities, lacking anything more than ceremonial authority.

The two Nords approached a gathering of Stormcloaks. One soldier broke off from the battalion; Hjalmar gave a nod of greeting as Ralof of Riverwood nodded in obeisance.

"Galmar Stone-Fist, Dragonborn," He gestured behind him. "The men are ready to take the Cloud District."

A bloodthirsty expression adorned Galmar's face.

"Well then," he cried as he raised his weapon above his head, "let's go kill some traitors!"

With a fierce bellow of a wordless battle cry, the Stormcloaks charged up the stairs towards Dragonsreach.

The dozen or so archers huddled behind the makeshift barricades did not stand a chance and soon the Stormcloaks stood before the barred door of Dragonsreach, having lost four, maybe five, men.

"Dragonborn," Galmar commanded, gesturing towards the door.

Hjalmar closed his eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath.

"_Fus...__**ro DAH!**__"_

As though hit by a hurricane, the doors exploded inwards in a shower of splinters.

As the Stormcloaks poured into Dragonsreach they were met by the last of Whiterun's defenders.

Hjalmar found himself crossing blades with an Imperial in Legate armour. He parried the Imperial's strike, his riposte scratching the Legate's faceplate in a spattering of sparks, before weaving backwards to avoid the counter-attack; the steel scraping his scale armour.

"_Zun...Haal!"_

The Leagate's sword flew from his hand mid-swing.

Hjalmar struck before the Imperial recovered, his blade darting between the helmet and the breastplate, slicing through the tender flesh beneath. The Legate fell with a gargle; dead in moments.

But Hjalmar could not savour the victory for the Legate was immediately replace by Hrongar, the Jarl's brother; his face contorting in rage as he slashed with his greatsword, his anger fuelling a berserker's fury. Hjalmar felt himself lose ground to the onslaught. He dived under a swing in an attempt to gain some breathing room. Hrongar did not intend on giving any quarter and moved to close the gap.

"_Krii...Aus!"_

Hrongar stumbled, blood draining from his face as his armour began to corrode under the effects of the debilitating Shout.

Hjalmar leapt forward, driving his blade deep into Hrongar; where the neck met the shoulder. The steel torn deep into the flesh, through Hrongar's lung into his heart; he was dead by the next heartbeat.

Hjalmar's own heart thundered as he drew in a deep, ragged lungfuls of air in an attempt to calm his pulse and replenish after Shouting.

A cruel laughter snapped his attention back to his surroundings.

The defenders were all dead; the laughter had come from Galmar as he stood triumphant over the body of Caius, commander of the Whiterun Guard.

"Is that all you have Balgruuf?" He sneered at the armour clad Jarl, passing a judgemental eye over the corpses, obviously finding them wanting. "And where is your little Elf, eh? I thought that vile cur never left your side. Guess an Elf should never have been given a Nord's honour."

The Stormcloaks joined in with their commander's cold chuckle.

Balgruuf's expression hardened to mountain-stone, a white knuckled grip on his axe.

"Irileth is protecting something far more precious than my city."

Balgruuf stare passed over the invaders. When it reached Hjalmar his expression fell and, for a second, seemed to look almost double his age.

"You...Dragonborn, why would you betray Whiterun? Betray me?"

While he suppressed, with great difficulty, any outward reaction, those words pierced Hjalmar's heart with a thousand needles of ice.

"I..."

"Enough talk," Galmar cried as he thundered between the tables towards Balgruuf.

Although he managed to bring his axe up to block the blow, the impact of Galmar's bullrush sent Balgruuf staggering into his throne; his axe clattering to the floor.

Galmar sneered as his raised his axe.

"Ulfric sends his regards."

With one blow it was over.

Galmar and the rest of the Stormcloaks bellowed their victory before dispersing into the depths of Dragonsreach; the crash of glass and smashing of wood echoed as they raided the Jarl's home.

Hjalmar however stared at Balgruuf's pooling blood.

He did what he had to do. He needed Dragonsreach to capture Odahviing in order to find Alduin. Balgruuf had refused, so a new Jarl was needed.

He did what he had to do; if only that could make him feel better.


	2. The Hunter

**The Age of Oppression**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done._

**The Hunter**

As the world returned to him, Anoriath realized he was moving. The toes of his boots scrapped across the rough floor as two sets of forceful hands held him upright with a tight grip; fingers digging painfully into his upper arms.

His vision swam as he was thrown to the floor.

"On your knees Elf," a harsh voice commanded as he was roughly jerked upright.

Anoriath blinked the stars away from his eyes. He found himself between two Stormcloak guards; part of the contingency that had been recently brought in to compliment the Whiterun Guard. With a quick glance around he saw he was in the throne room of Dragonsreach.

His gaze fell onto Jarl Gray-Mane as he lazed in the throne.

Suddenly a sharp pain erupted in the back of his head.

"Eyes on the floor Elf," the voice sneered. It belonged to Sinmir, the newly appointed captain of the guard following Caius' death.

"Elf," the Jarl spoke, "you are hereby accused of poaching Whiterun's lands."

"What?" Anoriath's head jerked upwards, only to receive another blow. He spoke to the flagstones. "I have permission from Jarl Bal..."

The words were cut off by the rush of air forced out of his lungs due to Sinmir punching him in the stomach. The other guards' fingers dug into his shoulders, yanking him upright.

"You will not speak out of turn grey-skin."

Anoriath bit his tongue, faintly tasting iron, to stop himself from reacting. He was a Bosmer, a Wood Elf, did these Nords think every Elf was the same?

"In case you are too stupid to comprehend, which may be the truth," Jarl Gray-Mane chuckled; several of the guards joining in, "there is a new Jarl and you most certainly did not have my permission."

Jarl Gray-Mane rose to his feet.

"For this crime," he paused a moment, letting the anticipation build, "fifty lashes and your possessions will be confiscated to cover the cost."

Anoriath quickly calculated all he had hunted since Whiterun was conquered. His eyes widened.

"I don't own that much."

His outburst was rewarded with Sinmir's fist in his gut. Anoriath clenched his lips shut, lest his coughing earned another blow.

"Then," Jarl Gray-Mane declared, his tone cold, "seventy-five lashes and a cell in Dragonsreach until I am satisfied."

Anoriath was dragged from the throne room and thrown unceremoniously into a dank prison cell to await his punishment. The cruel laughter of the guards echoing as the door was slammed shut; the lock ominously loud.

A week later he was found dead; stabbed from behind and his throat slashed. The only foreign object in his cell was a single nightshade flower.

The conclusion of the investigation was suicide.


	3. The Alchemist

**The Age of Oppression**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done._

**The Alchemist**

Arcadia wiped the sweat from her brow, careful not to let it contaminate the mixture she was working on.

She reduced the heat on the apparatus, letting it simmer rather noisily, before turning to the mortar and pestle; gathering a handful of Luna Moth wings as she moved. After dropping them into the mortar, she began grinding the wings into a powder. Once satisfied they were grounded fine enough she tipped the powder into the bubbling mixture of melted Ice Wraith teeth and the infusion of Nirnroot leaves.

Taking a glass rod from a nearby table, Arcadia stirred the gloop; watching with some satisfaction as the pale sludge took on a hint of yellow as the moth wings disappeared.

She took the concoction off the heat, putting it to one side to cool; replacing it with a pan of water and turning up the flame. When the water began to boil Arcadia reduced the heat before dissolving the pale yellow sludge in the simmering water, turning it an off-white colour.

When she was satisfied that everything had dissolved, Arcadia extinguished the flame and gave the cloudy liquid a few minutes to cool before pouring it through a filtering funnel into a tempered glass vial.

Pausing only to wipe her brow again, Arcadia took a piece of treated parchment, wrote down _Invisibility Potion (Enduring)_, before using the residue heat to stick it onto the vial.

With a sigh she began cleaning up her work area; gathering up the unused Nirnroot roots into a basket, sweeping the moth bodies into a bucket to be discarded later and wiping the residues from the wooden tabletop.

Once done Arcadia picked up the rapidly cooling vial, walked behind the counter and placed it in a space on one the shelves; turning around when she heard the door open.

"Welcome," she began, "I have potions..."

"I know what you have Imperial," a rough voice spat, "and I want to know why you are poisoning my men!"

Captain Sinmir of the Whiterun Guard, in all his iron-armoured glory, all but stomped into the shop.

Arcadia flinched at the hatred in the man's tone.

"Poisoned?" She stuttered, "I haven't..."

Sinmir slammed a gauntleted fist onto the countertop, causing the many dishes and vials to rattle and Arcadia to jump back, startled at the suddenly act of aggression.

"Then explain to me how a guard who came here for a simply 'hangover remedy' has been bed ridden with fever for three days!" Sinmir bellowed.

"Well," Arcadia tried vainly to swallow down the lump in her throat, "if the potion was mixed with mead then..."

"Now you are calling my men drunkards!" Sinmir roared, palms slamming against the countertop.

"I didn't," Arcadia cried as she flinched back, throwing her hands up defensively in front of her, "merely offering one explanation for the symptoms..."

She trailed off when Sinmir pushed himself away from the counter. He surveyed the shop interior before wandering over to the shelves, causing Arcadia to shrink back.

"You have a lot of expensive wares here don't you Imperial?"

Arcadia blinked at the sudden change in subject.

"Well yes."

There was a crash as the invisibility potion she had spent over five hours brewing shattered on the floor.

"It would be a shame," a rather potent healing stimulus crashed to the floor, "if something were to happen," an expensive Elixir of Strength followed, "to them."

Sinmir spun around, arm outstretched, sending nearly half the ingredients on the counter crashing to the floor.

Arcadia watched as several portions of Atronach salts turned to slush among the mixed potions and pieces of ceramic and glass.

"If I find you have poisoned my men it is off to Dragonsreach with you Imperial, am I clear?"

"As crystal," Arcadia squeaked. At his expression she muttered, "Imperial saying."

Sinmir snorted before walking towards the exit. He stopped at the door and turned around.

"Your taxes are due Imperial."

"But I paid my taxes to the Jarl's Steward yesterday."

"That was yesterday Imperial. Wouldn't want to end up like that Elf now would we? Flogged and imprisoned?" A humourless smile spread across Sinmir's face, "I think five hundred Septims should about cover it."

Suppressing down the disdain she felt, Arcadia reached under the counter and rummaged around her strongbox; scraping every coin into a coinpurse.

She hesitantly approached Sinmir, holding her arm outstretched.

Sinmir snatched the coinpurse from her hand and left without another word.

Arcadia sighed before fetching a broom and water bucket before beginning to clean up the mess.

At least the result didn't create noxious fumes like it did last week.


	4. The Priestess

**The Age of Oppression**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done._

**The Priestess**

Danica Pure-Spring sighed as she finished sweeping the Temple floor; the quiet, no matter how short, was a welcome relief.

It had been a difficult month.

First Mithopa Nasyal had injured himself working on his farm and his bones had refused to set correctly; resulting in nasty case of rockjoint that, once treated, manifested into helljoint.

Then Helgi had returned from Morthal with a rather stubborn bout of Swamp Fever all but immune to the standard healing potions, with restorative spell just curing the symptoms rather than fighting the disease. It was a welcome relief when the fever finally broke.

Which reminded her: she must collect her order of Blue Mountain flowers from Arcadia and see if Belethor had received the wheat shipment from Rorikstead he was expecting. Her store of tonics was running low.

This had not been helped by the main issue.

The injured from the conquest of Whiterun had clogged up the Temple for weeks; at least the farmer and housewife had left donations, despite how little they had. The soldiers had simply declared it was their Nord-given right to be waiting upon while they healed, considering they had "liberated" the city; and that was before the petty ailments and complaints. But they were now gone, the last stumbling out after she had healed the cut on his thumb, leaving Danica to clear up their mess.

Furthermore the haphazard shots of the Stormcloaks' catapults during their siege had damaged the Gildergreen and, to top it all, the resulting fire had cooked and crystallised the sap used to sustain it. The Gildergreen wasn't showing any signs of rejuvenating and there were reports coming from brave pilgrims that the Eldergreen's sacred sanctuary had been desecrated by Spriggans, Danica was worried that there wasn't a chance to save the ancient tree again; a doubt slowing growing into a despair filled fear.

She repressed another sigh as the door to the Temple opened.

"Welcome to the Temple," a tired smiled forced on her lips as she turned towards the door, hoping it was Ahlam or a mere worshipper rather than another injured. "Kynareth's blessing upon you."

She trailed off when she saw it was Sinmir and a company of five guards; not a walking wounded among them.

Her brow furrowed in confusion as Heimskr brought up the rear.

Sinmir approached, producing a roll of paper.

"By order of Jarl Gray-Mane," he read, "you are hereby commanded to vacate this temple."

Danica blinked.

"What?"

Sinmir glared. "You heard me woman. Following the honourable example of the Temple of Windhelm, the Jarl has declared that this temple be reattributed to Mighty Talos. You have half an hour to gather your things and leave."

Danica stared as Heimskr proceeded to move around the Temple, performing loud blessings in Talos' name; complete with erratic arm movements and borderline nonsense intonements.

One of the guardsmen approached Kynareth's shrine, picked it up and raised it high above his head with his intentions clear.

Unlike Danica, Acolyte Jenssen was startled from his stunned inaction and moved to stop him, only to receive a gauntleted fist in the face from Sinmir. He went down, a substantial amount of blood seeping from his mouth onto the floor.

With a mighty effort the guardsman threw the shrine to the floor.

Something tore through Danica as it crashed on the ground, the sapphire flying from it in a spray of moonstone chips; the echoing sound causing her legs to buckle as she fell to her knees.

"You can't." She whispered, eyes fixed on the broken remains of the shrine.

"Careful Priestess," Sinmir sneered, "such treasonous words could land you in Dragonsreach."

The other guards sniggered.

Danica did not seem to hear them as she continued to stare at the shattered corpse of Kynareth's shrine.

The Temple doors banged open as several labourers manoeuvred the large statue of Talos from its place in the Wind District to the centre piece of the Temple.

Heimskr followed them, holding aloft the shrine to Talos. With great reverence he placed it at the feet of the statue.

A rough hand gripped Danica's shoulder, yanking her to her feet.

"Time to go Priestess," Sinmir sneered, her title sounding like some vile epithet.

He and his men manhandled Danica and Acolyte Jenssan out of the Temple; shoving them towards the Gildergreen.

As angry black clouds rumbled overhead, Danica fell to her knees, placed a hand on the decaying bark of the Gildergreen and sobbed.


	5. The Soldier

**The Age of Oppression**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done._

**Author's Note:** inspired by comments made by characters in the game after Whiterun is conquered and the general behaviour of the Stormcloaks and their allies, this was originally just a bunch of vaguely interconnected one-shots written to pass the time while on holiday; initially I was going to just leave it complete with the four I had written, but some have asked about the effects caused by these actions so I shall continue on and attempt to show the consequences and lead to a conclusion. Thank you all very much for taking the time to review.

**The Soldier**

Idolaf Battle-Born let out a weary breath, his eye straining in the candlelight, as he studied the records before him.

Since the conquest of Whiterun Clan Battle-Born's standing had fallen dramatically and the strain was being to show; not at all helped by Gray-Mane's magnanimous offer of a reconciliation if the Clan's patriarch Olfrid bent his knee before him. Even Jon was acting skittish and looked as though he hadn't slept well in days; although what was bothering his wannabe skald of a brother-in-law, Idolaf could not fathom.

As heir to the Clan the responsibility of managing the farm fell to him and judging from the records in front of him Idolaf concluded that things were grim.

It seems that the Stormcloaks were not very accurate with their catapults during the siege and, being close to the walls, Battle-Born Farm was among the collateral damage.

Nearly a quarter of their crop was flattened by the projectiles; more would have been lost to fire if it had not been for the quick actions of his wife, Alfhild, and their worker Gwendolyn, who had braved the heat to extinguish the resulting flames.

In truth the Clan would have been able to weather the storm; even with the death of Severio Pelagia during the crossfire, which forced the other farms to shoulder the burden of an increased production in order to meet demand.

Then the rains came.

At first Heimskr proclaimed it a blessing; that Talos was showing his gratitude of Whiterun's liberation by ending the long dry season. This was easy to accept considering the rain began the day after the consecration of Talos' new temple.

But then the rains continued to fall.

For the first time in living memory the White River broke its banks and soon nearly all the farmland in Whiterun had become waterlogged as the rain had nowhere to run; crops that weren't drowned were flattened by the gale force winds. Not even the blessing of Rorikstead had saved them; while their natural drainage helped, their yield had been less than half of what was expected.

Quickly Heimskr changed the tune of his sermons, preaching that this was a sign of Talos' wrath due to the rest of Skyrim still being under their Oppressor's heel.

Idolaf thought that there may have been a grain of truth to that, for it seemed that the momentum the Stormcloaks had gained from Whiterun's sacking had almost immediately faltered; not at all helped by the disappearance of the apparent catalyst, the Dragonborn, who flew from Dragonsreach barely a week afterwards on the back of a dragon; armoured in the bones of the dragons he had slain and carrying a huge axe with a howling wolf motif. Idolaf may have pictured him dead in a dozen different ways for what his support had lead to but he had to admit the man had style after that exit.

Idolaf even continued to wear his Imperial armour, hoping for the day his orders came from General Tullius to join the front lines; he knew it was risky given the current climate, but he wanted to be ready at a moment's notice.

Idolaf shook his head and rubbed his eyes in an attempt to dispel the tiredness from them, as he refocused on the farm's records hoping to find a way to salvage the Clan's dire future; if only to take the pressure away from his father-in-law, who had reached out to nearly every contact he had made and was become more disheartened with every unanswered missive.

It was a small mercy that Captain Sinmir had not been by for the collection of his own "taxes" on top the Jarl's levies; the man was in a foul mood after supposedly being poisoned by Sabjorn of the Honningbrew Meadery in retaliation for his visit there the week before. This had allowed the Black-Briar Meadery of Riften to take over; which was exactly what a gold-starved city needed, expensive alcohol replacing the cheaper favourite.

Still it did not change the fact that every day the food stores of Whiterun were being depleted, which meant that prices grew with each reduction and the gloom pressing down on Whiterun grew heavier.

Admittedly some were trying to help.

For example Elrindir, the owner of the Drunken Huntsman, spent most of his day hunting out on the Plains; but the adverse weather and the tribute imposed by the Jarl for the privilege meant that very little of anything he caught was being passed on to the people. Normally his brother Anoriath, the superior hunter of the two, was the one who hunted but he had been killed while locked up in Dragonsreach for poaching; the guards claiming he had taken his own life after facing the Jarl's justice. However, despite this repeated claim there was a persistent rumour that it was the work of the Dark Brotherhood; a shadowy organisation of assassins that was proclaimed destroyed by the Dragonborn himself.

Faced with rapidly depleting stores there was talk that the Jarl was considering rationing the remaining food for the first time in Whiterun's written history; something that did not lighten the mood around the city.

In short the entire city was slowly becoming a powder keg and something was bound be the spark.

Idolaf's rather depressing reflections were interrupted by a forceful banging. Moving towards the main room of the Battle-Born's house, he heard the door open followed by the indignation of his wife.

"You can't just barge in to people's homes."

Entering the room Idolaf saw the reason for Alfhild's ire: Hjornskar Head-Smasher, Commander of the Stormcloak Battalion for Whiterun Hold.

"I act on the authority of the future High King of Skyrim and the Jarl of Whiterun. Do not tell me want I can and cannot do woman."

Hjornskar stood there glaring; the effect only slightly diminished by the rainwater dripping of his armour and the faint stench coming from his sodden fur cloak.

When he noticed Idolaf a glint of perverse glee appeared in his eyes.

"Idolaf Battle-Born," he announced, "You are hereby under arrest for the crimes of treason and sedition."

"What?" Alfhild shouted; Idolaf just stared wordlessly.

"He still wears his Legion's armour; that is cause enough," Hjornskar didn't look at her while he spoke, "You are to be held in Dragonsreach until you are brought before the Jarl and your property will be seized in recompensation."

The implications of his words quickly dawned on Alfhild.

"You can't. The farm has been in our family for generations; our laws won't allow it."

"And you family has done a piss-poor job with the land so far," Hjornskar berated, "Better it be in the hands of a more worthy Clan."

He stared right into Alfhild's eyes.

"And I can if new laws are written."

"That's madness," Alfhild gasped, her eyes wide.

"Madness!" Hjornskar bellowed, "Madness is leaving the source of our food supply in the hands of traitors. For all I know you are the cause of our shortfall!"

Alfhild shrunk back, shaking her head and muttering, "That's insane."

Hjornskar once again rounded on Idolaf.

"Come quietly to Dragonreach Imperial Scum," he commanded as he shrugged the harness of his greatsword off his shoulder, grabbing the hilt while letting the point of the blade rest on the floor, "The Jarl has authorised lethal force if necessary."

The expression on his face all but begged Idolaf to try something.

"Alright," Idolaf said, raising his hands, palms outwards; thankful that he had left his sword in the study, "I submit; I won't resist."

"Pity," Hjornskar grunted, gesturing towards the door; he did not move until Idolaf had exited into the pouring rain.

Alfhild stared as a retinue of five Stormcloak soldiers surrounded Idolaf and followed Hjornskar as he lead them towards Dragonsreach, taking a rather scenic route.

She could not help but wonder if this was the last time she would see her husband.


	6. The Widow

**The Age of Oppression**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done._

**Author's Note:** Fixed the spelling mistake in the previous chapter.

**The Widow**

Carlotta Valentia let out a weary sigh as she began to clear up her stall.

It seemed to be getting darker earlier with each passing day, although that could be attributed to the dreary weather; either way it did not do anything to lift the dismal atmosphere of Whiterun and neither did the Jarl appointed guard that loomed over her stall ensuring that no one bought more than was rationed.

It had been a long day, with what few customers she did get barely speaking as they made their purchases with downcast eyes before scurrying off to get out of the continuous rain.

Briefly her eyes lingered on Arcadia's Cauldron. The lights of the shop had been dark for a few days now and Carlotta hoped that the alchemist was alright; hoping that the rumours that she was either on a supply run or had gone back to her homeland were both equally true.

A tug on her sleeve drew her attention.

"Mama, can we go to the tavern for supper?" Mila asked; her eyes wide and her damp as she huddled out of the rain.

Carlotta suppressed another sigh.

With Lars Battle-Born being shipped off live with family elsewhere, the weather hindering play and rumours of assassins making Carlotta insist she stay in her sight at all times; the last few days had been hard on her daughter and it pained her to see Mila so down.

"Alright little fairy," she said, "Go on ahead while I finish up."

Mila beamed as she darted from cover towards the Bannered Mare; head down against the wind and rain.

Carlotta quickly scooped all the money from her lockbox and winced. Somehow she didn't think twenty Septims would be enough and she still needed to buy firewood; but it wouldn't be the first time she had gone hungry to feed her daughter and seeing her smile again made it all worth it.

Pocketing the coins she made her way to the tavern.

As Carlotta passed Anoriath's old stall she gave a small smile to Ysolda, who had taken it over and was trying to sell whatever game Elrindir of the Drunken Huntsman could scrounge up in addition to the small trinkets she got from the caravans; being the only one willing to walk all the way down to the stables to trade.

The young stall keeper returned the smile; one that seemed as forced as the one given. Her eyes were as downcast as the rest of Whiterun's and Carlotta assumed that Ysolda's trade was no better than her own; after all who had gold to buy trinkets when few could afford what little food was available?

Carlotta sighed as she entered the Bannered Mare, savouring the simple pleasure of a warm fire.

Shaking the water from her dress Carlotta made her way to the table her daughter had claimed; not the least surprised that it was the one closes to the fire.

What did surprise her was the bowl of stew she was already eating.

Carlotta sat down and was about to inquire about the food when a bottle of Honningbrew mead appeared in front of her.

"You look like you could do with this."

Mead seemed to be the only thing not rationed by the Jarl, which seem fortunate given that the Black-Briar Meadery had all but flooded Whiterun with the stuff. It was slightly amusing that in the Hold Black-Briar and Honningbrew mead were practically the same price; one for the vintage, the other for the rarity now that the Honningbrew Meadery was gone.

Carlotta looked up at who was holding the bottle.

"Thank you Mikael."

"No problem," the bard said, "After all when they're drunk the guards lose track of what they are tipping. As they are the only ones with any gold left, it's certainly not my place to keep tabs on them."

He finished with a wink.

"Would you like to join us?" Carlotta asked.

"Certainly," as he sat down Mikael turned to the bar, "Hulda two more beef stews please."

He turned back to the table, "This is on me; can't let that gold go to waste."

Carlotta allowed a small smile at his antics.

While she wasn't sure if she would ever call Mikael a friend, he was certainly more tolerable now he had stopped his aggressive attempts at "taming" her.

Carlotta was still thankful for Uthgerd for talking to him about that; a conversation no doubt backed up by her fists. She stilled smiled at the memory of Uthgerd telling her she had dealt with the bard, making no attempt to keep her voice down; causing Mikael to turn a rather interesting shade of red.

Her gaze fell unto the morose warrior; as she sat in the corner of the tavern, staring into a mug of mead, Carlotta's heart went out to her. Rumour was she had spent the last several months helping the Dragonborn on his mission to stop the dragons; only returning just before the sacking of Whiterun, no doubt torn over the attacking of her home. It was said that during the siege Uthgerd stood guard over Hulda and Saadia while the Stormcloaks ransacked the tavern; no doubt daring them to try something with the women. And now with the Dragonborn's disappearance on the back of a dragon, Carlotta could not blame Uthgerd for looking so depressed.

Their food arrived and Mikael seemed content to engage Mila's attention, even getting the girl to smile and giggle; a sound Carlotta had severely missed.

She let her gaze wander around the tavern.

Unusually there was a group of Companion gathered around a table. Judging from the toasts they made they seemed to be celebrating a new Harbinger; a celebration no doubt tempered by the death of the former one, Kodlak Whitemane. Strange that there were no new faces in the group; Carlotta wondered where the subject of the toasts was.

Carlotta attention was brought back to the table by Mikael draining his mug.

"Let me get you another," Carlotta said, standing up.

"You do not have to."

"No, I insist; you are paying for our supper after all."

Not giving him any time to object further, Carlotta made her way to the bar; only to have her way blocked by three men in guard's uniforms.

"Hey there Car...Car," the leading man slurred, rather unsteady on his feet, "Pretty lady," his companions chuckled stupidly as he leaned forward, "why don't you join us for some fun."

Carlotta suppressed her revulsion as the stench of mead from his breath mixed with the smell sweat and grim; didn't these people bathe, it wasn't as though water was scarce at the moment.

"No thank you," Carlotta said as she tried to pass by, only for the guard to grab her wrist.

"Come on," he leered, "It'll be fun."

His sentence ended with a loud belch.

"I don't think so," Carlotta insisted, trying to free herself from his grip.

The guard's face hardened as his grip on her wrist tightened painfully.

"You harlot," he snarled.

"I don't think she wants to be in your company Engar."

The guard whirled around, Carlotta quickly jumped back to avoid his flailing arm; he blinked owlishly at the fact that his two companions had be replaced by Athis, the Dark Elf of the Companions.

"Who asked you? Good for nothing yellow-bellied grey-skin."

Carlotta used the interruption to retreat back to the table.

"Mama, what's a harlot?" Mila asked.

"Not now," Carlotta whispered as she tried to figure out how to get her daughter out of there without having to pass the confrontation.

The whole of the tavern seemed to look on with bated breath as the guard Engar continued to rant and insult the warrior in front of him.

"Too much of a coward to fight for freedom while we risked our blood; no you stayed locked in your hall while the real warriors fought."

Engar did not seem to realise he was being surrounded until Vilkas spoke up from behind him, causing the guard to whirl around again; this time having to use the bar to keep himself upright.

"I think you need to consider you next words carefully," Vilkas growled.

Carlotta could almost hear the skeevers running around behind Engar's mead glazed eyes as the cornered guard contemplated his options.

And decided on the one most stupid when he proceeded to swing his fist at the nearest Companion.


	7. The Housecarl

**The Age of Oppression**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done._

**The Housecarl**

Olfina Gray-Mane stood ready, hand on the hilt of her sword and every muscle taut; she was prepared to spill the blood of any who would dare to attack her uncle, the Jarl of Whiterun.

However if she was to be truthful at the moment she hoped that the current audience did not try anything; facing a member of the Companions was daunting, facing the Harbinger was damn near terrifying.

As the Harbinger continued to talk Olfina noticed that the expression on Vignar's face became stonier.

"I am merely looking for an explanation that explains your actions," the Harbinger concluded.

"The position of Harbinger carries no authority to make such a demand."

The Harbinger blinked, before nodding in acceptance.

"Of course, my Jarl, I mean no malfeasance."

"You are young and new to your position so I will take no offense, but know this I, as Jarl, answer only to our future High King."

"Which is my grievance; the Companions did not serve a cause. I merely wish to know what is driving my Shield-Brother."

Vignar's eyes narrowed.

"As I have said, Redguard, my actions are not your concern, so if you have no more wishes you are dismissed."

The Harbinger appeared to balk at the rebuke. She then straightened her posture.

"Vignar the Revered," she intoned, "On the recommendation of the Circle, for violating our neutrality you are hereby expelled from the Companions of Ysgramor. The day to you, my Jarl."

The Harbinger bowed and left with a swish of her black cloak.

When the doors to Dragonsreach banged closed Olfina turned to her uncle.

"Was it wise to antagonise the Companions?"

Olfina resisted the urge to take a step back at the glare she received.

"You are my housecarl not my steward; if I want your counsel I will ask for it."

"Of course, my Jarl."

Vignar rose to his feet.

"I will retire for the night; have Avulstein bring the reports from Farm Gray-Mane to me in the morning."

Without waiting for a reply Vignar made his way to his quarters.

Olfina sighed before taking a seat at a table; placing her head in her palms. This was not the first time she had questioned the actions of her uncle: the desecration of the temple, hording the food stores, tying up the majority of men and gold in Ulfric's war effort and now seemingly trying to pick a fight with his former kin; there seemed to be a corruption slowing poisoning her city and she wasn't sure if there was a cure.

"Having a bad day?"

Olfina jumped at the voice; turning wide eyes to the speaker.

"Jon," she hissed as she rose, grabbed his arm and dragged him into a shadowed alcove; franticly looking over her shoulder.

"Are you mad? Anyone could have seen you."

"Sorry, wouldn't want you to get caught consorting with the enemy."

Olfina suppressed a winced at the slight coldness in his voice.

Not wanting to fight, she swallowed her retort and asked, "Why are you here?"

"Well as you seem to be avoiding me I thought I would come to where you can't."

"I' m not avoiding you Jon."

"Then why haven't I've seen you seen Idolaf was dragged through the streets in chains?"

Olfina shushed him as his voice began to rise, once again her gaze darting around Dragonsreach; by the look on his face Jon didn't appreciate her need for discretion.

"That was an unfortunate situation Jon, but there was nothing I could do; those orders came from Windhelm."

"Gods damn it Olfina, they won't let me into the prisons. I don't even know if he is still alive or not."

"Now you know how my family felt."

When Jon's expression became blank Olfina realised she had spoken her thought out loud.

"I told you the Battle-Borns had nothing to do with Thorald's imprisonment," ice seemed to grip her heart at his flat tone, "Nice to know you were truthful when you said you believed me."

He told to leave.

"Jon, wait," Olfina grabbed his shoulder, only to be shrugged off.

"I wanted you to know, if you care anymore," Jon said, looking at her with dull eyes, "I have been accepted into the Bard's College. I leave tomorrow morning."

At with that he was gone; all Olfina was left with was an ache in her heart.

Suddenly the doors to Dragonsreach crashed open as a guard ran through.

Reacting Olfina ran into the open with her hand on the hilt of her sword.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.

The guard took several deep breaths.

"There's a riot," he spluttered, "Down in the Plains District."

Immediately Olfina turned to one of the servants, "Go get the Jarl."

The servant scurried off and after a few moments a sour faced Vignar appeared.

"I thought I made it clear I wasn't to be disturbed."

"Tell him," Olfina commanded.

""There is a riot, my Jarl; down in the market."

"So," Vignar dismissed, "Go deal with it."

The guard blinked, "Of course, I was just commanded to inform you."

"Then consider your duty fulfilled. Olfina go make sure it is quelled."

The guard bowed before making his way out of Dragonsreach.

Olfina turn to make her way to the armoury.

"Where are you going? The marketplace is that way."

"To the armoury," she trailed off at the baleful glare she received.

"And waste more time? Just go."

"But," she sighed, "Yes my Jarl."

Olfina swallowed down her rising trepidation and made her way to the marketplace; head bowed against the lash of the rainfall.

The stairs into the Plains district had already been barricaded by the time she got there.

Olfina approached a group of guards that were huddled around a person kneeling; it was Captain Sinmir, who was grabbing his leg around a nasty looking arrow that protruded from his knee.

"Blasted Huntress," he cursed, "I swear the bitch was smiling when she hit me," he glared at the assembled guards as he shouted, "Why has no one got me a healing potion yet?"

"There are none sir; our stores are dry," a guard said.

"Talos damn it," Sinmir growled, "Then where is that priest."

"He says he doesn't know any restoration magic," another one stated.

"Just perfect," Sinmir muttered.

He grabbed an offered bandage before ripping the arrow from his joint, gritting his teeth against the pain. Once the bandage was applied tightly he used another guardsman as a crutch to steady himself onto his feet.

"What do you want housecarl?" he snarled.

"The Jarl has ordered me to quell this incident," Olfina's sharp tone showed she did not care for his attitude, "What is the situation here Captain?"

Sinmir snorted, "Look around you woman. The market stalls are smashed, the barracks are on fire and the criminals are holed up in the tavern."

"Causalities?"

"One confirmed: Engar."

"The one who helped the Dragonborn retrieve the Jagged Crown?"

"Aye."

One of the guards snorted and muttered, "If you believe his story he tore it from the draugr's decaying hands singlehandedly, word is he just played glorified door maid."

Olfina ignored the comments, "What started this?"

"According to his drinking buddies," Sinmir gestured at two rather bruised guardsmen; Geirlund and Vidrald if Olfina recalled correctly, "the Companions are to blame; they threw the first punch."

Olfina balked at this before looking at the rather young looking guards that were assembled.

"Is this it?"

"All our experienced men were reassigned to Hjornskar, so unless you want to remove the ones I assigned to protect House Gray-Mane this is the lot."

Olfina sighed; a dozen fresh faced recruit to take on what were considered the most experienced warriors in Skyrim.

"Alright," she said, unsheathing her sword, "Let's settle this."

When it was over Olfina was grateful there wasn't any more considerable damage; half a dozen guards would be off duty for several weeks while they recovered, but Engar was the only fatality. The guard barrack would be uninhabitable until it was rebuilt, but the consistent rain had prevented the fire from doing any structural damage; although considering most of the treasury was being donated to Ulfric, Olfina suspected that the guard's quarters in Dragonsreach were going to be quite cramped for the foreseeable future.

The downside was that the Companion were locked up in Jorrvaskr and therefore practically untouchable due to ancient accords; the only arrest was the bard, Mikael, who Sinmir had dragged out from the table he was cowering under, and Olfina had the impression that that was just to say the perpetrator had been imprisoned.

Jarl Gray-Mane was making moves to have the Companions expelled from Whitereun, but Olfina did not know how successful he would be.


	8. The High King

**The Age of Oppression**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done._

**The High King**

Ulfric Stormcloak resisted the urge to rub his temples as he felt another migraine coming.

A whole year. That is how long it took to finally liberate the rest of Skyrim.

He had expected it to be fairly easy after Whiterun had fallen; with the Dragonborn by his side and Skyrim's largest producer of food under his control, how could he not believe so?

But then the Dragonborn disappeared; flew from Whiterun on the back of a dragon to fight Alduin in Sovngarde. Six months he was gone; months that could have been used to secure Skyrim if only Vignar Gray-Mane had not immediately granted his aid on the Dragonborn's quest. What good was saving the world when there was still fighting to be done?

Ulfric shook his head to dislodge that irrational train of thought, telling himself that the stress of government was getting to him; an easy thing to do considering the dozens of letters from every corner of Skyrim he got everyday demanding aid, despite every coin going into the rebuilding of his militia. And that was without that milk-drinker Brunwulf Free-Winter or Viola Giordano petitioning every blasted hour for an audience to discuss the Grey Quarter or that imaginary murderer respectively.

Sighing Ulfric turned his attention to the gathered Jarls. It had taken far too long but now the moot was upon them and it was time for him to ascend to the High Throne of Skyrim.

Ulfric held back what would have been a rather undignified snort as his gaze fell onto Jarl Gray-Mane as he conversed with his steward, the wannabe Companion Brill.

Whiterun had become a pale shadow of itself. Although the storm that had battered the Central Hold for nearly nine months had abated, it had left a proverbial swamp to rival Hjaalmarch. The once famous farmland of the realm wasn't fit to grow Swamp Fungi.

Getting tired of dwelling on grim circumstances Ulfric gestured to Galmar to begin the proceedings.

"We have convened here for the fourth moot of the Fourth Era," Galmar loud announcement brought all conversion in the hall to a halt, "I now present to you your candidate Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

Ulfric rose from his throne.

"Thank you my friend."

He smiled at the gathered Jarls; unconcerned that none smiled back.

"It has been a trying time," he spoke, "but we have triumphed for the good of Skyrim and as your High King I will continue to do that good."

A loud snort drew the attention of the room.

"Do you have something to say Jarl Gray-Mane," Ulfric asked the haggard looking Jarl.

"As a matter of fact I do."

Ulfric gave a rather condescending wave of his hand and Vignar rose from his seat.

"The good of Skyrim," Vignar said, "and yet you have failed to response to every request for assistance I have sent."

"You of all people know of the demands of rule," Ulfric returned, "I cannot hold one call for aid higher than all others."

"So you would let your people starve?" Vignar thundered, "Hardly the actions of a king."

"And you would do better?" Jarl Thongvor of the Reach drawled.

Vignar narrowed his eyes, "Hold your tongue Silver-Blood," he then gestured at the assembly, "And why wouldn't I. I am as much a candidate as Ulfric; the Gray-Mane walked the snow with Ysgramor himself."

"And we have seen how you rule," Thongvor jumped to his feet, "You have driven your Hold into the ground. You have turned the wealth of Whiterun into nothing more than mud and slime."

"That is not my fault to bear. No mortal can command the rains."

"Perhaps it was Imperial spies," Dengeir of Stuhn, Jarl of Falkreath, interjected; taking a break from muttering to himself, "They are everywhere you know."

The other Jarls ignored him.

"And what I have done," Vignar continued, "has been for the good of our traditions."

"Our traditions," Skald the Elder, Jarl of the Pale, sneered, "Seizing ancestral land as your own due to the actions of one married into the Clan, attempting to evict the Companion from their honoured hall; it is obvious that your actions are for yourself, not our traditions.

"And," he continued, standing up to challenge Vignar's glare, "if it is about legacy then we might as well put Torygg's woman on the throne."

Jarl Elisif the Fair of Haafingar was startled in her seat; her wide eyes rising to meet the gaze of the others before returning to stare at her folded hands in her lap.

"What about Winterhold's legacy?" Jarl Korir cried; clutching at the horned steel helmet that resting on the arm of his seat.

"Enough," Ulfric bellowed; a faint tremor rippling through the air, "We have fought too much already."

"Have we?" Vignar sneered, "I don't remember seeing you at the Battle for Whiterun; or anywhere on the front-line. It was the actions of the Dragonborn that won your war was it not? What were yours?"

Galmar's hands clenched and he seemed to be stopping himself from lunging forward.

"You dare to insult Ulfric here," he growled.

"I am merely asking our candidate to inform us of his battles during the war, as I cannot recall them at the moment."

"Enough," Ulfric belloweded again; the windows of the hall rattled in their frames, "We have delayed for too long."

Everyone returned to their seats.

"Cast your vote."

"I vote for Whiterun," Vignar declared.

"I vote for the Reach," Thongvar said as he glared at Vignar.

"I vote for Haafingar," Elisif whispered meekly, no doubt emboldened by the events.

And so it continued with each Jarl voting for themselves until it came to the last Jarl: Laila Law-Giver, Jarl of the Rift.

"The Dragonborn," she announced without hesitation.

Silence met her declaration; her adviser, Maven Black-Briar, looked like she want to hide her head in her hands.

But there was no rejecting her candidate for he met the requirements; every Jarl had made him a Thane of their court after his actions during the war, there was no contradicting his fighting prowess and his legacy could not be denied. The fact that he wasn't present was of no consequence.

The end results were plain to see: nine votes, nine candidates.

Ulfric released a weary sigh; he saw no way to break this deadlock.

"Maybe if given more time we could agree?" Sorli the Builder, Jarl of Hjaalmarch, suggested.

Thongvar snorted, "Maybe if we exclude the invalids."

From his position, Thongvar's sweeping gesture enclosed every Jarl except Sorli and Elisif.

Vignar scowled in fury.

"Insolent whelp," he snarled.

Vignar jumped from seat, grabbing the blade of his housecarl and took a step towards Thongvar.

Pandemonium reigned as every housecarl drew their weapons and stepped in front of their Jarl.

The Jarls themselves rose to their feet shouting as their stewards and advisers pulled them away from potential harm.

"This isn't over Silver-Blood," Vignar shouted, "You will pay for your insults today."

"I will be waiting Gray-Mane."

As he was pulled from the hall Ulfric's apprehension increased with every threat from the assembled Jarls; each one vowing blood for every slight and transgressions perceived during the moot.

A new dawn was rising over Skyrim and it promised a red sun.


	9. Appendix

**The Age of Oppression**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done._

**Appendix**

Originally this was going to be attached to the last chapter as several sentences explaining the inspiration behind each chapter. However a rather interesting review has inspired me to expand upon it.

I will admit to not really playing as a Stormcloak; the only time I did was to get past the Battle of Whiterun in order to inspire more scenarios for this story.

And I will confess to thinking, when I watched a playthrough of the main quest by a Stormcloak player, that the words said by Jarl Gray-Mane during the capture of Odahviig sounded insincere with compared to when spoken by Balgruuf and that I feel that, overall, the Empire is the better choice for the future of Skyrim.

With the battle of Whiterun, while Ufric Stormcloak may believe that "taking his city and leaving him [Balgruuf] in disgrace will make a more powerful statement" the person he put in charge of the siege, Galmar Stone-Fist, believes that "if he [Balgruuf] not with us [the Stormcloaks], he's against us" and would prefer to shove "a sword through his gullet". So the first chapter was an attempt at a more realistic end to Balgruuf's last stand. Incidentally Irileth is off protecting Balgruuf's children as he strikes me as someone who would put their well-being above his own, so would send one of his most trusted and capable warriors to ensure their safety.

With the Dragonborn, Balgruuf refused to help because the Civil War threatened Whiterun; so the Dragonborn decided to end it permanently, rather than risk a fragile truce, and, being a Nord, joined the Stormcloaks, influenced by his attempted execution by the Empire and his reverence of the outlawed Talos. With the ending, his actions, directly or otherwise, led to the death of someone he considered a friend; or at the very least respected. So some guilt is understandable and expected.

The second chapter was a show of a consequence of a regime change, specifically the change in law. Anoriath goes and hunts as he always does, unaware that the law has changed; therefore he is punished for poaching and while the punishment may seem harsh, ultimately Jarl Gray-Mane is acting in the right because ignorance of the law is not an excuse. However seeing as Jarl Gray-Mane would have had no experience in running a city it felt plausible that he would fashion his rule after the example of Ulfric and Windhelm, a place where Dark Elves are notoriously treated poorly and so would extend such practices to his own city; the treatment would no doubt be generally applied, giving the overall disdain for Elves in general, and perhaps exaggerated seeing as the only example Gray-Mane can follow is from word-of-mouth and rumour, which would explain the perceived harshness of the punishment.

The third chapter is based on Arcadia's comment that "they [the Stormcloaks] won't shop here because they think I'll sell them poisoned tonics". Also you now have a commander of the guard who is very self assured in his way of securing Whiterun's defence; "...I could do his [Commander Caius] job blindfolded...". So he takes it upon himself to try and force this potential threat out of his city by, essentially, extorting her and making it too unpleasant to stay. But there is a pseudo shrine to Mephala, the Daedra associated with plots, in the city so Sinmir's scheme becomes corrupted which in turns leads to his own corruption.

This brings me to the Temple of Kynareth.

Jarl Gray-Mane makes a comment about how he plans to build a temple to Talos in Whiterun and, jokingly, suggests putting Heimskr in charge of it. But the city's gold is now tied up in the Civil War and there just so happens to be a perfectly good temple right in middle of the city. So in order to keep his word and save on gold, he sends his commander of the guard to merely evict the incumbent priestess. The guard captain who has been corrupted by a Daedra Prince; so things go more violently than planned.

The chapter with the Battle-Borns explores the fallout of the previous actions. With the desecration of the temple dedicated to the Goddess associated with the wind and rain, a great, seemingly unending storm now wracks Whiterun; damaging the crops and reducing the food supply. The Battle-Borns made a considerable part of their wealth from Imperial alliances and their farm, both of which are now practically non-existence, causing their prestige to lower dramatically. So when orders come from Windhelm to crack down on potential dissentients and Imperial spies Jarl Gray-Mane points the Stormcloaks in the direction of the family his is currently feuding with; thereby removing one opponent of his rule.

This was done because of the Civil War. After the Battle for Whiterun Jarl Gray-Mane immediately granted the Dragonborn's request for help in honour of him practically giving him the city; inadvertently removing the Dragon's incentive to fight for the Stormcloaks. So without the Dragonborn the Civil War returns to what was before: a stalemate back-and-forth between General Tullius' tactics and Ulfric's guerrilla style warfare, tying up more gold and resources on both sides; which will severely affect the morale of the Stormcloak and the already battered Whiterun.

The next two chapters are basically following on; showing the effect the damage morale is having on the populace. With such a powder keg a violent reaction seemed inevitable.

With Jarl Gray-Mane having sworn himself to Ulfric and the Stormcloak cause he has essentially cut himself off from the other Companions, add to this the pressures applied to a new, inexperienced ruler, results in him becoming a lot more caustic and short tempered with those around him; especially if they appear to criticise him or insult his Nordic honour, perceived or otherwise.

Now for the final chapter, the moot.

The Stormcloak Jarls are all united by a single purpose: the liberation of Skyrim; with that having been achieved there is nothing now to focus and balance the conflicting personalities. Ulfric may be a savvy enough politician to unite people under his flag but surely his image would have been tarnished by his perceived inaction during the war; considering it is the Dragonborn who has basically won the war, seemingly by himself - especially considering the final final with Tullius is only witnessed by Ulfric and his two most loyal soldiers, casting doubt on what actually happened. And if the people of Skyrim fought themselves once, what is stopping them from doing so again now that the different sub-factions have no more oversight?


End file.
